You will still be working in a small Midwest town, when you overhear my name in the grocery store. You’ll pause, wait around for someone to say it again, and when you hear nothing you’ll insist you heard nothing in the first place. Hm, maybe your mind’s going.
You’ll never be who you were when we were friends. It’s fucked to say, I know, but those years are behind us both and neither of us are the same. Not in the optimistic ‘We all grow better with age’ kind of way. I’m bitter. I’ve fed you volcanic ash. Cry, and I won’t be there to comfort you as it scars your lungs, turns you into leather from the inside out. The works I’d written you into, the pictures saved to my camera roll, are fringed with the same burning metals, each memory fuel for my eruptions. Your reputation is irreversible, I may have loved you, but I only ever needed you. Now that I don’t, you’ll be the one left in the smoke.
